The Game of Death
by imbackbaby
Summary: When you want to be seen, you are invisible. When you want to disappear everyone notices your presence. However, when discovering his love's sickness, Francis is not sure how to react.


At first Francis did not speak, the problematic silence lasting as long as it took to gather his thoughts. Then he laughed. The boisterous sound echoed in the small space, brining a pair of concerned eyes to focus in on him.

"Do you think this is funny?" Gilbert had asked, rage seeping into his voice.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Francis smiled at his friend. "Shouldn't I be asking the same of you? Death is not something you should joke about. I would know if he had died."

"Francis, I know that you two were close but-"

"No!" He suddenly shouted, startling Gilbert into dropping the newspaper in his hands, papers scattering onto the floor. Francis took a deep breath, a smile reaching his lips. Crouching to the floor, he began to pick up the separate pages, until one caught his eye. "Is this…?"

There was no response to his unfinished question, although Gilbert had probably made some sort of gesture. Francis was afraid to look up, afraid that the boy in the pictures would disappear.

'_Died in the hospital, alone…'_

The incident in the hallway had not convinced Francis. This boy was a shadow, evading the grasps of those around him in fluid motions. Surely the hands of death could not wrap its bony fingers around the soul of an angel.

'_Died in the hospital, alone…'_

When Francis heard the news, it should not have affected him as much as it did. He had already known about the other's condition, but had it not recently stabilized? Then again, when was the last time they talked?

'_Peacefully in his sleep…'_

Maybe it was a hoax, a last minute resort to leave town and move back to Canada for better treatment. Would this sort of fraud be necessary? A story posted in every local newspaper, a memorial ceremony, and a heated school assembly discussing the meaning of life and difficulty of death. Wouldn't that be considered overkill?

'_Died…'_

'_In his sleep…'_

'_Alone…'_

The memorial was beautiful, a touching ceremony to say goodbye to a wonderful son, brother, and friend. Eleven people were in attendance.

Francis was not one of them.

'_Alone…'_

"Hey, where were you Sunday?" Alfred stormed up to Francis, a glimmer of anger in his eyes.

Noting the off-putting emotion, Francis shrugged, pulling a textbook from his locker. "I already had plans."

A hand pinned Francis to the wall, tightening when the victim began to struggle. "Bull. Fucking. Shit. You and he used to be so close, then you fucking blew him off when he needed you most. I remember him coming to me, worried, because he was afraid to tell you. I _told him_ that everything would be okay, and when he came home crying because you wanted nothing to do with him. You didn't want him to 'contaminate' you. I can't even fathom how someone could act so stupid! He trusted you, he _loved _you, and you left!"

Francis was left speechless, and when Alfred took a break for breath he could hear everything going on. The excited murmurs of a group of students, quickly multiplying as others gathered and joined the party, blending with rushed footsteps and the clacking of loafers on tile floor.

"I don't know what my brother ever saw in you, and I never will understand. But after everything you put him through, he still had some feelings for you." Alfred released the other from his hold, pulling out an envelope from the front pocket of his backpack. "He wanted you to have this. I know, you're probably not going to read it, but he wanted me to give it to you." Alfred's eyes began to water, and he rubbed them harshly to stem the flowing of the tears.

Suddenly, the bell rang.

"Well, I have to go to class." Francis muttered, gently prying the letter from Alfred's hand and making his way down the hall. Right before reaching Physics, Francis slipped out of the crowd, sneaking into the handicapped bathroom and locking the door behind him.

He leaned against the door, tossing his backpack and stray textbook across the room. A quick tug on the envelope was all it took to form a large tear, dropping a group of letters onto the floor. Sinking to his knees, Francis picked up each individual shred of paper, and read:

'When had your expression turned so cold?

The icy looks sent my way making me freeze in place, yet I still have anger burning inside of me.

When others said things,

Did things, tried to harm me and the little self-esteem I mustered up, it didn't hurt.

No, not at all.

Not as much as it hurt when you turned against me.

So that was the plan?

Get on my good side, watch me crumble in my state of confusion?

Watch as I humiliate myself?

I assume it was.

You don't speak to me anymore, I am invisible to you aren't I?

Don't worry about me, I have gotten back to my routine of sitting alone at the corner of the empty, filth-crusted lunch table.'

'Do you care?

At one point I believed you did, but now I have my doubts.

I am sick.

Never really was one for a happy ending anyways.

The pains come and go, in random, undeterminable waves.

It's a weekly, daily, _hourly_, thing.

It wouldn't be so bad, either, if that was all.'

Did you know that having an illness automatically makes you 'disgusting'?

An unloved burden to society with no friends?

A broken, useless, nothing?

That's funny, I didn't know either, until they began to remind me.

Every. Single. Day.

Not just the people that follow me every day, throw me against the walls, push me in the halls and scatter my books along the floor, stuff notes in my locker that is conveniently spray-painted with the same insults.

It has started to follow me home and play over and over in my head.'

'I don't care, why should I?

There's no point.

They say I am selfish, wasting money on treatment.

I am ugly, the bags under my eyes complimenting my pallid skin tone and the hair rapidly disappearing.

I am an idiot, I have let my grades slip from all the random doctor appointments and trips to the ER.

I'm unlovable - even by you.'

'I am still the one who will comfort you when you need it, even if my only thanks is a snarl.

I am still the one trying to piece together my life while dealing with mental and physical pain, and a support net which has become frayed and filled with holes.'

'I remain able to love myself, just enough to keep fighting.

I look at their point of you,

Then mine,

Then yours.

And all the words seem to slowly fade into the distance, a less bothersome white noise.

I practice smiling more often now.

I may be bullied.

I may be abused.

And I may have Leukemia.

I may be a victim of many things, but my experience has made me just as strong as it has weak.'

'By the time you are reading this, I will probably be dead, if not on the verge of it in a hospital bed far away.

But I just wanted to let you know somehow, that everything you did helped. From when I am writing this it has been almost a year since when you suddenly began hating me. Yet, just by remembering all of our good times, I was able to die somewhat naturally, instead of by my own hand. In a way, you helped. In a way, you saved me.

In the end…

I am forever grateful.'


End file.
